


The Ashes Call My Name

by nateyface



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Genderfluid Character, In Medias Res, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Undercover Michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nateyface/pseuds/nateyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael left Jersey to join the FBI, to do good, to catch the bad guys. After months deep undercover with the Fake AH Crew, the lines start to blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For [horrificsmut](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/)/[mightbeanasshole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole), who prompted this ages and ages ago, and who inspires me utterly.

Michael steps back from the loaded train car and activates his hidden camera, bringing screens to life in a distant FBI warehouse. Under the freeway, deep in Los Santos, he pictures Agent Dunkelman and her team immediately analyzing where he’s standing, who’s standing with him, that’s _the_ Geoff Ramsey - and he turns to give the lens a view of the notorious crime boss himself, knowing the man makes a few of the far-away agents shake.

Ramsey swings the beam of a flashlight around the interior of the car, squints, strokes his mustache; the rest of his Crew start to back away, ready to leave on his word. Michael stays, banishing the distracting thought of Dunkelman’s group poring over every pixel of his feed.

“Looks good in here,” Ramsey announces before patting Michael on the shoulder. “It’s all on you, Vincent.”

“Yeah, no problem, boss.” Michael climbs into the car, the video feed jostling with his movement. He clicks on a flashlight of his own, illuminating the crates of weapons and parts he’s in charge of. Handwritten stickers cover where the Crew ripped legitimate labels from the shipments; some list contents, some destinations. He lingers over one that reads “To Liberty City, with love,” as Ramsey slides the heavy metal door shut behind him. The clang of the latch echoes thunderously over the microphone.

“Alright, Babs, I’m clear,” Michael whispers. He crouches by a lower crate and tugs at the lid. “Should have brought a crowbar,” he adds with a humorless chuckle. Gripping the light between his teeth, he uses both hands to pry the top off and expose the boxes of ammo inside. He shifts to another box, narrow light glimmering where the paint chipped off the car wall. Confident he won’t be caught, he more deliberately aims the hidden camera, following the lines of information along the labels and making sure to capture as much evidence as possible.

The train whirrs to life, shaking Michael’s balance. He opens two more crates, just enough to show the muzzles of guns and some extended magazines.

“One more and we’ll call it case closed,” he announces as though Dunkelman can respond. “I ride out to the meeting with Flanagan, take his money, take him in, and we finally…” He trails off. Dunkelman knows how much work it’s taken to pin down Ramsey’s smuggling operation - months of Michael vanishing deep undercover, countless man hours listening to the Crew’s bugged apartment and studying movement habits.

Dunkelman knows, even if Michael feels like he’s done it alone.

When Michael lifts the lid on his last crate, it’s immediately wrong. It comes away too easy, with a _click_ that he’s sure registers on the microphone. He tosses the thing aside and aims both his flashlight and camera into the box to investigate.

“Fuck me.” Michael gazes down at the glaring red LEDs nestled in a bed of wires and pipes. “Of course. Fucking… fuck me. _Shit.”_ He throws the flashlight at the wall and it snaps, batteries clattering to the floor and rolling with the momentum of the train. The noise of the wheels is suddenly deafening, the air tight and dense, and he needs to _breathe._ His phone vibrates in his pocket - definitely Dunkelman - but what would he even say at this point? ‘Sorry we were played?’ Some kind of sad goodbye? He’s staring at a bomb, one counting down with bright ‘fuck-you’ lights and probably enough charge to take out the entire train.

Enraged, he rips out a wire. The LEDs flash “GET FUCKED,” before returning to their countdown.

“Goddamnit. Fuck - Barb. Shit.” His phone buzzes again, but it blurs with the tingling adrenaline across his body. “Barb - stop. Stop calling me, I’m not gonna fucking answer the phone, I can’t.” As he speaks, he paces the length of the car. He tries the door - latched from the outside. He kicks it, kicks another crate. He picks up the lid to throw it again and finds “NARC” painted on the underside.

He laughs bitterly and chucks it aside.

“I’m fuckin’ sorry, Barbara. You’re… fuck.” He pulls out another wire.

The bomb flashes “BOLLOCKS.” The numbers continue to tick down.

“You’re a great fuckin’ agent, Barb. This is bullshit - you don’t fucking deserve to have this thing go down in flames.” Michael watches the time slip away in slow motion, running his mouth freely as his brain fixates on how little is left. “This is my fuckin’ fault, I must’ve let something slip. You were fuckin’ perfect, and you just had a shitty field guy, and - listen. Before I go…”

His phone buzzes furiously.

“Dunkelman, I swear to goddamn Christ, I will haunt your mirrors forever if you keep fucking calling me.” Michael brushes sweat-slicked hair from his forehead. “Listen to me. This is just a speed bump for you, okay? You’re a great agent. Go kick a metric fuckton of ass for me.”

The feed goes dark, crackling for a second before stilling completely. In the warehouse under the freeway, a team of agents hold their collective breath until the shockwave of an explosion ripples under their feet.


	2. Pouring the Fuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael goes from studying to living a carefully-built lie.

Anxiety bubbles under Michael’s skin as he sips his last cup of coffee in Quantico. He’s an hour early for his train, but the alternative was waiting around on a base he didn’t live on anymore. He’d rather enjoy the quiet afternoon in the small Amtrak platform, he thinks. Not many quiet afternoons in Q, unless it was the deathly stillness of study hour.

He blows on his coffee and thinks about his assignment, about the west coast, about how he isn’t going back to Jersey before he disappears into the life of an agent. He thinks about the last time he called home. It feels so far away now, the memories dimmed like a bad film effect.

That’s all fine. He’s FBI now, ready to make sacrifices for justice, for his country. _Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity,_ rings through his head.

He imagines the west coast as endless sun and surf, beaches with white-hot sand, and a cool blue ocean kissing the sky. The last of his coffee is cold when he finally drains the cup and boards the train toward DC, toward airplanes, toward the future.

\---

Los Santos, as it turns out, is mostly smog. When the sun shines, it does so through a filmy haze, beating down on cracked pavement and half-maintained buildings. Michael spends most of his first few weeks in a hot warehouse under the freeway, meeting agents and studying police reports. For a time, it’s almost like he’s still in school; he memorizes dates and news stories, practices answering to a new name, and cracks locks and safes for hours. He sleeps against a desk in the office between powering through coding and security protocols on Agent Dunkelman’s equipment. After dreaming in lines of javascript, he picks up IDs from New Jersey and San Andreas for both his new name and some aliases.

It takes time, but 'former' FBI agent Michael Jones leaves the dingy La Mesa warehouse as Vincent Acerbi, security wrecker extraordinaire. He has a phone full of fake contacts, a barely-legal pistol, and a meeting with a big name from the Cock Bite family out of Liberty City. Dunkelman ran him through the backstory a dozen times before she'd let him out the door. For the first time since he flew in, he has a day to himself before everything in his life becomes a carefully-built lie.

His apartment on Popular Street is nothing much, especially with no time to decorate between high-speed lessons. He makes instant coffee, watches the sky turn orange-pink over abandoned factories, listens to a fight break out in the alley. After nightfall, he watches the news and feels an odd twist of discomfort at the unfamiliar anchors. It's the first thing that's made San Andreas seem alien, or made Jersey feel like home again. Nights spent watching local 10 o'clock garbage after a day full of traffic infractions leave a taste of bitter nostalgia in his mouth.

This is why he’s here, he reminds himself. His days as a traffic cop are long behind him. Jersey is long behind him. He’s doing important work here in Los Santos - infiltrating the most notorious gang in San Andreas. The FBI’s been trying to catch them for ages; local police have had hands on them for only minutes before they slip free. Evidence disappears, witnesses retract statements, cops outright die - whatever happens, the crew is always free before anyone has time to claim they were caught.

Tomorrow, Michael is permanently Vincent. Agent Michael Jones has already vanished from FBI records; instead there’s a file on a Jersey hacker credited with assisting the Cock Bite family through three high-profile jobs. Hopefully, his contact has everything straight; if the first day doesn’t go perfectly, he’s wasted mind-boggling amounts of time and resources.

It’s this whirl of anxiety and old aches that follows Michael to sleep on his thrift-store couch, with tobacco smoke and smog as his blanket.

\---

The dry, acrid smell of the cheap match singes Michael’s nose. He lets it burn nearly to his fingers before shaking out a serpentine wisp of smoke and tossing it to the pavement.

Waiting is not his favorite, he thinks as he breaks another match out of its book. He scorches the flap, soot obscuring the neat lettering of “The Emissary” on the front. Good of the hotel to have a bowl of matchbooks in the lobby, lest Michael die of wait-related anxiety.

A voice interrupts his motion to strike the next match.

“Acerbi?”

Michael looks up at a thin older man, drastically overdressed in a three-piece suit. It makes Michael sweat just thinking of facing the Los Santos heat in those layers. 

“Who’s askin’?” He punctuates his question with a frown, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

“It’s Heyman.” The man takes off his hideous yellow-gold bucket hat and squints in the sunlight. “Any sign of Ramsey?” He looks around the busy street, head cocked to one side.

“Not that I know of. Are we supposed to meet him inside?” Michael notes that the bucket hat is that horrible color from a photorealistic print of gold bars, and Heyman’s shoe is untied. He’s a little less anxious about impressing the boss.

“Uh… geez. We’d better check, I guess.” Heyman looks between Michael and the hotel door. “You first?”

“Whatever.” Michael pushes into the air-conditioned lobby, veering away from the concierge to the restaurant inside. He stands just on the border where the carpet changes from ugly to uglier and scans the visible tables for Ramsey. An irritated maître d’ watches him for a minute before stalking over with an armful of menus.

“Can I help you… gentlemen?” she says with strain in her voice. Heyman could maybe get away with nosing around, but Michael’s uncombed hair and frayed jeans are anything but swanky. Neither man volunteers any information, and the woman waves a menu at them in a shooing motion. “If you aren’t customers, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

Heyman turns around and squints at the door. “Sure.” He wanders out again, but Michael gives the dining room another once-over. Hard to imagine making a good impression if he managed to miss the boss sitting somewhere obvious.

 _“Hello?_ Are you lost?” the woman asks, ire flaring in her tone. Michael rolls his eyes and silently follows Heyman outside.

Fantastic. A career criminal and a cop, and neither of them can figure out how to meet someone at a restaurant. Michael pulls out his matchbook and flicks one of them alight.

“He’s probably just late…” Heyman shrugs. “Or he’s at a private chef’s table, waiting for us.”

“You’re the least helpful asshole I’ve ever met,” Michael grumbles. “This is stupid, text him or something.”

Heyman slides a gold-plated phone from his pocket, because of course he does. “My phone’s dead.”

“You’re incredible.”

“I get that a lot.” Heyman frowns and squints into the lobby. “Listen, let’s check inside one more time, and then just wait out here.” He pauses just long enough for Michael to nod. “And by ‘let’s’ I mean you.”

Michael bites back a frustrated yell and settles for rolling his eyes as obviously as possible. He silently thanks his luck that Heyman is only vital for one day as he storms inside and blows past the bewildered maître d’. She makes a shocked, squeaking gasp but makes no motion to stop him, too intimidated by his dour expression. Michael makes a much more thorough investigation of the dining room this time, not even attempting to stay out of the way of waiters as he scans for a face he’s seen on screens a hundred times.

Finally sick of marching around the restaurant, Michael charges back to the maître d’ and holds his hand up an inch above his head. “Listen, I’m looking for a guy about this high, big twirly mustache, sleepy eyes. S’posed to meet him here.” She huffs and nods her head toward the window.

“You mean him?”

Michael whips around to see Ramsey and Heyman talking, standing comfortably as though they’d been chatting for minutes. God _damn_ it. He grumbles a handful of curses and puts on his best face to rejoin two career criminals in the heat.

“There he is.” Heyman grins at him, ugly hat back on his head. Ramsey turns slowly, methodically - or maybe Michael is simply nervous enough for time to slow down. “Geoff, this is Vincent Acerbi, a friend of mine.”

“Great.” Ramsey offers his hand, dark with ink. Michael shakes it firmly and nods. “Pleasure to meet you. Let’s get out of the sun, shall we?” Michael opens the door for them and trails in after Heyman. Fortunately, it’s Ramsey who deals with getting them a table, and the staff cast dark looks at Michael when Ramsey’s not looking.

Once they’re seated, Michael has an air-conditioned moment to let it sink in that he’s across a table from the deadliest man in Los Santos - in all of San Andreas, really. Saying ‘Geoff Ramsey’ in a police station or a room full of agents sets knees shaking. There’s footage circulating of the man with a minigun, expression cold as he mows down police and military in his path.

The tuxedo-clad killer in front of Michael offers a sleepy smile, teasing the edge of an empty wine glass with one tattooed finger.

“So, Joel tells me you’ve helped his business,” Ramsey says casually as he takes a menu from the waiter. “Sounds like Liberty City was working out for you.” Michael takes a menu but tries not to break eye contact; he doesn’t want to miss something in Ramsey’s posture, some hint that he’s not as cool as he seems.

“It got a little hot over there.” Michael shrugs. “I needed to get somewhere all the baristas didn’t know me by name.”

Ramsey chuckles, a warm noise that makes Michael feel validated.

“Well, Joel says you’re a security guy.” There’s no crack in Ramsey’s facade as he leans back in his seat. “Maybe we’re the coffee shop for you.”

Joel is frowning at his menu when Michael glances his way. Ramsey watches Michael’s gaze through half-closed eyes.

“Don’t freak out, Acerbi.” Ramsey centers him as though reading the anxiety in Michael’s thoughts. “Joel’s given you high marks. Burns, too. And I trust them.” Michael focuses on not breathing an obvious sigh of relief. “Of course, now we need to see you in action.”

Michael nods before he can start shaking. He knows his shit. He could probably fuck up the cameras in this very restaurant if Ramsey asked him to. There’s no reason to be this nervous.

“I’m having a meeting with a couple of my guys tonight. I’d love for you to be there.” Ramsey passes him a card - dense black paper, crisp silver text. “Text me your number and I’ll let you know where to find us.”

“Thanks, can do.” Michael peers at the card - just ‘GLR’ and a number on one side, a mustache and ‘Burn After Reading’ on the other.

“Here.” Ramsey drops a few large bills on the table. “Eat something nice,” he says as he stands up, adjusting his tux jacket in a smooth motion. “I’ll see you both later.”

He’s gone in a moment, leaving Michael and Heyman in chilly silence.

“Well, that was fast.” Michael drums his fingers on the table. “Should we eat?”

Heyman laughs. “I’ll never turn down free food.”

\---

Michael considers keeping Ramsey’s card to pass to the FBI.

He burns it with the last of his matches from the Emissary, and the silver ink sparks in a lightshow of gratitude as it fizzles away.

\---

Ramsey is with someone when Michael sees him in the Storm Drain under Innocence Boulevard.

He parks his car at a motel by the bridge, walking the rest of the way to breathe. Side streets swing down under the bridge to the cement slopes of the Storm Drain, and he takes the path at an unhurried jog. So Ramsey has company - it could be someone he’s been briefed on, could be an unknown. Michael pushes the nerves away, loosens his muscles, lets himself be ready for whatever awaits in the river.

The stranger spots him atop the concrete as he negotiates the slide down. As he hits the bottom, they approach to give him a hand.

“You must be Acerbi,” they say with warmth in their deep voice. He takes a moment to look them over - bobbed orange hair, a loud Hawaiian shirt, red v-neck underneath. They’re much taller than him, and bulky. He flicks through his mental roster of the crew.

“Pattillo?” They smile and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same. And Jack is fine - I may be the brains, but I’m not the boss,” they add with a grin. Ramsey barks a laugh behind them.

“Don’t listen to them, Acerbi, they’re as much the boss as I am.” He tosses a cigarette to the ground and stamps it out while Jack rolls their eyes. “Now we’re just waiting on the beer, and we can talk business.”

Beer sounds like heaven. “Who’s delivering?” Michael asks. Ramsey turns to grin at him, and for the first time since meeting him, there’s a sinister flash in those sleepy eyes.

“The Marabunta.”

“The Salvadoran guys? How--” Michael’s interrupted by the approaching roar of an engine from farther up the Drain, and a motorcycle skids over the shallow river from the east branch, followed by a car full of shouting men. Ramsey is utterly calm as he slides a submachine gun from the bag at his feet and braces to fire.

“Cover your ears,” Ramsey commands, and both Michael and Jack’s hands fly to their heads. The cyclist passes them and stops with a controlled spin as Ramsey lets loose on the car, rat-a-tats piercing and echoing over the din of the engines and hollering. Through his reflexive squint, Michael sees the blue jerseys of the gangsters burst red, the car’s body pocked with bullet impacts.

“Fuckin’ got em!” the cyclist shouts from behind them, barely audible. The car veers away from them and up the Drain wall; Ramsey stops firing and lets the gun rest against his thigh. 

The commotion is over as quickly as it began, and Michael’s ears ring as he lowers his hands.

“All that for some beer?” he asks Jack, who shrugs.

“Yeah, and they didn’t even have Caprisun,” the cyclist complains as he joins them. He’s a lean figure, with tufty dark hair and light brown skin. Before Michael can guess at his identity, he drops two cases of Pißwasser and pats Michael on the shoulder. “I’m Ray. You’re the Jersey guy, right?”

“Yeah. Vincent Acerbi.” It’s almost dizzying how easily the crew settles down after shooting out a packed car. Michael watches as Ramsey and Jack open a case and tap their beers together. Ray pulls off his backpack and drops to the concrete between them.

“Sit on down, Acerbi,” Ray urges. “Or are you fucked up over that exchange with the Marabuntas Grande?”

“It’s a little real-er than what I’m used to,” Michael admits. The river has largely absorbed the blood that splattered into it, but only yards away there are stains on the pavement. “I’m just a tech guy.” He sits anyway, folding himself to the ground across from Ray.

“The Marabuntas hold races up the east branch of the river,” Ramsey explains suddenly. “And once in a while we get in a little tussle with them around here. Good to remind them who owns the city.”

“And there’s no retribution?” Michael asks as he opens a beer of his own.

Ramsey flashes a lopsided smile. “They know better.”

“How does a crew of - what, six of you? - keep winning out over the bigger gangs around here? The Vagos, the Lost?”

They all share a smile. Michael frowns.

“You really did your research when you moved here,” Jack remarks. “We know what we’re doing. Geoff comes from talented people - you should know.” Michael nods. The Cock Bite family is small, too, but they know whose palms to grease and chains to tighten.

“If your test job goes well, you’re joining a very carefully-built, exclusive club,” Ramsey stresses. “The whole ‘when you’re a Jet’ schtick - we’re not kidding around.”

Michael feels himself begin to sweat. Can they see through him that easily?

No. Ramsey drops to the ground beside him and packs his SMG away again, cool as a breeze.

“Like I said before, Joel and Burnie gave you high marks. You shouldn’t be worried - you’re just showing us what you can do.” Ramsey swigs his beer easily. “We’re gonna give you somethin’ real simple, with plenty of backup.”

“Part one is a convenience store,” Jack says as they join the crew on the ground. “You pick the lock to the back door, disable the CCTV system, and signal us to move in. No casualties, small take.”

Ray raises his hand. “I’m your getaway driver. You hop on my bike outside when you’re done, no one knows we were there. Jack and Gavin - you’ll meet him when we go in - are in charge of the front.”

“Sounds simple enough.” Michael’s already running through how he’d take out the CCTV - no need for anything especially high tech. Convenience stores don’t exactly have the budget of jewelry stores or banks. “What’s part two?”

“Pass part one first,” Ramsey answers with a chuckle. “You’re eager to please, huh?”

Michael smiles. “It’s what the Cock Bites liked so much about me.”

\---

Rain starts pouring as Michael marches down Clinton Ave. The heat refuses to let up, even in the damp night, and the humidity easily crawls under his clothes. Sweat glues stray curls to his skin before the job has even begun. The word ‘swampy’ comes to mind as he thinks about the warmth trapped between him and his backpack of equipment.

He forces himself not to think about it. Or about the fact that he’s about to break into a building and rob it. 

“Hey assholes, do you read me?” Ray breaks in over the radio. Michael resists the immediate instinct to nod.

“I read you,” Jack answers, and Michael can hear their smile. “The Bird and I are in position.”

“Is our new bloke on the line?” a new voice pipes up, and Michael’s surprised to hear an English accent.

“I’m here.” He stops a building away from the target. His hands are steady.

“Ello, friend!” Michael laughs at the unguarded glee in the greeting.

“We can do intros later,” Ramsey cuts in. Michael can’t help but glance toward where he knows the boss is positioned, though he can’t see through the buildings. “Bird, Frog, hold position. Fox, where are you?”

“In position, no worries,” Ray answers. “It’s dark as fuck back here.”

“Chicken?” It takes Michael a second to remember Ramsey is referring to him.

“On my way to Fox.” He adjusts his backpack strap for something to do and breaks away from the yellow glow of the streetlights. The alley beside the store is broad and filthy, littered with empty cardboard boxes and abandoned shopping carts. The building itself is much too big for a convenience store and lined with shutters for delivery trucks.

“Pick up the pace, Chicken,” Ray teases, even as he sees Michael round the corner to the back. “Alright, I got him in sight,” he amends to the radio. “We’re GTG.”

Michael joins Ray against the dumpsters, eyeing the back door and its single flickering light. The radio fizzles quietly as the job really begins.

Picking the lock is just a matter of patience. It’s different with the weight of the crew overhead, the eyes of Ray and distant Ramsey watching his hands and tools, but he knows what he’s doing. He focuses, keeps his hands steady, sticks his tongue out a little to the side in concentration.

The door swings free on its hinge, and he catches it to keep it from creaking. Ray nods at him from the corner of his vision.

“I’m in,” he whispers, putting on his best theatrical voice. Ray snorts.

The levity makes it easier to step quietly inside. The concrete hall immediately cools his damp skin, to his great relief. There aren’t any cameras in the hall itself, so it’s only a creeping walk to the door he needs before things get serious - as if the existing crime wasn’t serious already, he mentally corrects.

“Status, Chicken,” Ramsey orders.

“Second lock is broken.” Michael lets himself into the small office space, immediately spotting four CCTV screens and an ancient computer monitor. He shakes the mouse on the cheap metal desk to see what he’s dealing with.

“I think this asshole’s running Windows 98,” he whispers, frowning at the stark login screen. “Hang on, I got this.” He messes with some buttons, opens a print dialogue, some help menus and - there. The desktop materializes, fooled into existence by trying to open a folder.

“I already used the hacker joke,” he laments, “but I’m on his system.”

“Good job,” Ramsey purrs. Michael grins wide and starts hunting for the CCTV controls. “Everyone in gear?” The team babbles affirmatives, all on edge waiting for Michael.

It’s simple enough to just disable the cameras, and his fingers buzz with a kind of tingling satisfaction as he steps back. “Just about - hey. Hey, Goat?” Michael frowns in disbelief at the surface next to the desk.

“Yeah?” Ramsey’s voice tenses, just enough to notice.

“Who scoped out this location?” Michael knows the crew can’t see him, but he’s pointing now. Under a coffeepot and scattered documents is a safe. A safe he knows damn well how to crack, and that wasn’t at all mentioned in the plan.

“I think the Bird did,” Ray volunteers. “What did he fuck up?”

Michael chuckles. “There’s a safe in here, dude.”

The Bird makes a strangled noise of surprise. “Wot?? But I checked - I took photos!”

“He’s got a coffee maker on it, and some other junk.” Michael crouches beside it and gets ready to work. “Glad I brought the good stuff. Do you wanna call off Bird and Frog?”

Ramsey makes a thoughtful sound. “Nah, let us know when it’s empty and you’re out. A better take means better after-job drinks.” The Bird hollers at that, and Michael stifles a laugh.

“I’m on it, Goat.” He settles into his work, negotiating softly with the safe, working gloved hands over its mechanisms comfortably. He makes a mental note to thank Dunkelman for such thorough training later.

Oh, yeah. Dunkelman. The FBI. He frowns as the safe clicks open. This was a little too… He can’t find the word. Fun? Thrilling? Satisfying? He loads wads of cash and a brick of something definitely not legal into his backpack and feels like he’s standing just behind himself, watching.

You’re an agent, he urges himself.

“We’re golden,” he says into the radio, shutting the safe behind himself. “On my way out, Fox.”

“Ready for you, baby.” 

Michael checks the CCTV one more time, ejects the - ew - _VHS_ from the system just to be sure, and pulls the door shut with the most gentle click he can manage. Out back, Ray perches on his motorcycle, helmet held out toward Michael as he approaches to hop on.

“Got him,” Ray announces.

“Frog and Bird, hit it.” As Ramsey speaks, Ray’s engine roars to life, and they zip out of the alley into the rainy night.


End file.
